


Ready or Not

by dianasilverman



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Post-Lethal White
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 11:47:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18850456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianasilverman/pseuds/dianasilverman
Summary: Years after the Chiswell Case and the end of their professional partnership, Strike agrees to meet Robin in their favourite pub. There is heartbreak in this quiet conversation, but also hope, if they can find it.





	Ready or Not

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZoeSong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeSong/gifts).



Now it’s getting late, and the moon is climbing high.  
Neil Young, “Harvest Moon”.

Detective Inspector Robin Ellacott had not felt this way in a very long time. Blood was rushing in her ears, reducing the din of the pub to a low hum, the few curls that had escaped from her carefully architected bun were clinging to the back of her neck, and even walking steadily required effort. The lofty heels she'd donned for the occasion weren't helping.

Later, she would reflect that life had a way of wearing down emotion until only the sharpest feelings could cut. Years of personal upheaval coupled with professionally sorting through the macabre had had this effect on her. But in this acute moment, she was too moved for reflection. All she could do was make her way to the corner booth where Strike was waiting for her. He was facing away from the door, wide shoulders painfully ridgid. She was grateful for these last few moments unseen, but reminded herself forcefully that this meeting had been her idea.

"Hi, Strike."

"Robin." Apparently, this occasion necessitated first names. She set down her purse, searching her wallet for bills with shaking fingers.

"I'm going to the bar. D'you want another?"

"That'd be great, thanks."

It had been a very long time since they had met for drinks, Strike thought. He wished he could remember the last such meeting, but it would have seemed unremarkable at the time, only rendered significant in retrospect. How many times, he wondered, had he and Robin met in a pub, in this very pub, albeit called by a different name, before she left the agency? Their Friday evening tete-a-tetes had certainly been too numerous to count. After she left, their meetings had been carefully confined to coffee shops, cafes, and, on one occasion, New Scotland Yard. These locales, brightly lit, sterile, and bustling, had seemed safer. Their conversations, likewise, had become brusquely cheerful and transactional, with volumes going unsaid. Or, at least, he had left volumes unsaid. He could no longer guess at what Robin might be keeping to herself. The last time he had spoken freely with her had seen to that.

Unlike their last pub evening together, he could remember every detail of their last real conversation vividly. The relentless chill, barely mitigated by the wheezing radiator. The beeping of a delivery van backing up in the street below. Robin's dove grey sweater, rolled up at the sleeves. Her hands, twisting as though fidgeting with the ring she no longer wore. A singular fleck of melted mascara on her right cheek, like a beauty mark. She'd raged, she'd cried, and then, worst of all, she'd been silent.

"White wine, please."

"Small?"

"Large."

"First date?"

"Of sorts. I'll have a Doom Bar as well."

"He's a little old for you", the barman said, smirking. She shot him a quick glare, wishing she'd worn her leather jacket.

"I'll just take the change, please."

When she first began working at the Met, Cadet Ellacott had prided herself on holding everything together. Each new day was an opportunity to rise with the grey London dawn, pull her shoulders back, and push her body to the level of exhaustion necessary to quiet her mind. Almost immediately, she rose to the top of her class at the academy. Her instructors admired her drive, her intelligence, and the fact that she never complained. With her father, she was breezy and shallow. Her conversations with her mother were spare and infrequent. Even in her sessions with her new therapist, she was reticent, although she approached her CBT exercises with renewed commitment.

Months passed. The bitter winter melted reluctantly into a halfhearted spring. She moved house twice, learned her superior's preferred style of note taking, discovered a fondness in herself for taking long walks during the city's quiet hours. Early on a weekend morning or late on a weekday night, London's ever-present roar dimmed to a gentle rushing. The wet pavements shimmered with the glow of streetlights, and she took satisfaction from the simple pleasure of dodging puddles, keeping herself warm and dry. If she turned a corner and found herself down a dark street alone, her breath still caught, but she would head steadily back towards the light, calming herself. The callouses on her hands from hours of kickboxing were a source of comfort. These sapphire hours gave her time to reflect, to be alone with herself and find peace in her own company. Back at work, or in whatever unsatisfactory rooms she was currently sharing, she had to be Ellacott, tough and blasé, but alone on the streets of the city she called home, she could devote her time to learning what being Robin felt like.

"So..." Strike began, feeling a sudden pang of longing for their former easy rapport.

"Yes?"

"You said you wanted-"

"Forensics hasn't been able to establish a time of death for the girl yet, but the last of the lab results are scheduled to come back early next week, which should give us more to go on." She’d imagined this conversation endlessly, but his presence turned her stiflingly awkward. It was easier, then, to fall back on work.

"What did you make of the brother's testimony?"

"I wasn't able to sit in like I wanted. Carver is still keeping me miles away from any cases that involve you."

"Conflict of interest?"

"I suppose." She was still struggling to meet his eyes, feeling more restless than any reluctant witness in an interrogation room.

"Robin."

"There's more though..." she forged ahead, "just between us, the Met isn't entirely satisfied with some of the fingerprints found at the scene."

"Interesting,” he remarked, waiting for her to get to the reason she'd invited him to The Flying Horse on a Friday night, instead of to a corner cafe on Monday morning, as was their custom of the past few years.

"Take the stool, for example. It's covered in prints; the victim's, of course, but also the brother's and another set we've yet to identify."

"Suspicious suicide. Just like old times."

"Yeah. Just like old times."

Sometimes, Strike could still feel the shape of Robin in his arms. He'd held her exactly three times, with the last being the time when, both of them a few sips past tipsy, she'd pressed herself against his side on Nick and Ilsa's couch and he'd wrapped an arm around her shoulder. For just a moment, he'd known the bliss of being close to her, untainted by tragedy or longing. He’d never experienced peace like that before, and hadn’t since. Only a few days later, they'd embarked on the case that would end whatever they had been and any hope of what they had been becoming.

Ilsa had given them a smug sideways look, but it hadn't mattered. All that he'd cared about was the curve of Robin's body against his side, her gentle warmth, the steady rhythm of her breathing. She'd looked up at him through heavy gold lashes, clearly expecting resistance, but he'd only squeezed her tighter. She'd sighed contentedly, eyes fluttering closed. The blue green light of the TV had washed her lovely face with all the colours of the ocean. Eventually, she'd fallen asleep, but he'd stayed awake, afraid to move even fractionally. Besides, the place she was rested against was too electrified to afford him slumber. He'd thought, for the first time and not the last, the words that would one day turn her pale and silent. To this day, the reason she'd let him hold her like that remained one of the many unsolved mysteries she'd left him with.

"I don't think..." he offered, "you asked me to meet you here to talk about fingerprints."

She sighed. One of her graceful fingers traced a circle around the rim of her glass.

"I suppose I didn't but..." shrugging helplessly, she lifted the wine to her lips. Strike mirrored the gesture, taking a swig from his pint.

"Getting drunk usually helps us." he commented drily. She laughed despite herself.

"Do you remember the first time I had to carry you home from here?"

"'Carry' is a bit of an overstatement, but I know the one."

"I was worried you were going to, -I don't know- but you didn't. Instead you just kept telling me I'm a nice person."

"Sorry ‘bout that. You are a nice person though. Fundamentally."

"I haven't been so sure of that these past few..." Units of time escaped her.

"Bullshit.”

"You really believe that, after everything?"

"’Course I bloody do." Despite his best intentions, a note of frustration crept into his voice. "Now, out with whatever it is you wanted to tell me before I have to get another drink."

“I don't know how to explain myself in a way that you'll like hearing.”

“Try me.”

During her quiet walks through the twilit streets, Robin had often thought of Strike. Her mind returned to him more frequently than she would have preferred, lingering over his strong hands, adding borderline indecipherable notes to case files in his spiky handwriting, or the feeling of being held in his arms. What she thought of most were those moments of perfect clarity and understanding that had passed between them, rare and wonderful. She reached out, longing to pull the sensation of being known fully around herself, but it always slipped away. It was then that she would shake herself, tell herself that if she had wanted things to be different, she had had her chance. Because she had let it slip away, their impersonal professional connection would have to be enough.

Then, just the week before, she'd seen him unexpectedly in a cafe across from New Scotland Yard. Caught without the time she usually devoted to composing herself before their meetings, she felt suddenly exposed, unsure of how to act. To the casual observer, he would have appeared to be merely one of the many financiers pausing for a cup of coffee and to read the newspaper before heading to work. He had dressed the part, in a nondescript chambray shirt and his Italian suit, impeccably fitted to his broad shoulders. But she knew better. There was a mirror behind the bar that, combined with the cafe's stark, floor to ceiling windows, afforded a flawless view of the Lambeth street, and the river beyond it. Clearly, he was working. Had he truly been engrossed in his newspaper, she might have turned, darted into the street, found somewhere else to buy coffee. It would not have been her most dignified moment.

Instead, knowing she would soon be spotted, her eyes were drawn to his reflection in the precious seconds before he noticed her. He looked tired, battered, and lovely. His soft curls, stubbornly unchanging, had refused to grey, but the shadow of stubble under his chin had. Years of intense living had carved deep lines around his mouth. With his brow relaxed, he betrayed no outward sign of concentration, but she could recognise the fierce focus in those dark eyes. For a moment, her heart stopped beating as he looked up and caught her watching him. Their gazes met in the mirror and she saw something in his that called back the past, that reminded her viscerally of what they had once been. It reminded her of his long ago declaration, on that fateful winter day when she'd told him she didn't want to work for him anymore. Though his expression was fleeting, quickly hidden behind careful neutrality, it had been enough to convince her to ask him if he might be interested in getting a drink sometime. In addition to her mocha she had ordered a tea with an extra bag, room for milk. Maybe next Friday, she had offered, and he had agreed.

"The other day - seeing you reminded me of what we had been to each other and..." She shook her head, blushing like she hadn't in years. What else we almost were to each other.

"What else we might have been if-" She exhaled, feeling suddenly lighter. Sometimes, being seen through was liberating.

"Exactly. Besides, I missed talking to you. Really talking I mean, not just comparing notes and going our separate ways." She hadn't realized the verity of the sentiment until it was expressed.

Illuminated by the pub's soft incandescence, she was a sight whose beauty the long years hadn't eroded. He thought the cream sweater that clung perfectly to her curves might be the same one she had worn on her first day in his office. She looked up from her glass, not seeming to care that he was staring, her blue grey eyes shining. There was a fleck of mascara on her cheek. Strike wondered again at her motivations.

"You can always talk to me, you know that. We'll always be friends." As soon as he said it, he knew he'd misstepped.

"Right."

"Cheers?"

She clinked her glass against his, managing a half-hearted smile. Then she downed its remaining contents in one.

"Another beer?,” she asked, silently hoping he would call the night over so she wouldn't have to.

"I'll go this time." Some instinct told him that the night ought not be over quite yet.

Left alone at the tiny table, she let the word 'friend' wash over her. Shame and self doubt came to her in waves.

In the many years he'd known Charlotte Campbell Ross, she'd found new ways to hurt him with an astonishing level of creativity. He had thought himself to have become immune to her when, her twins only recently born, she'd left Jago and asked him to run away with her. He had refused. The memory of Robin curled against him on the couch only days before had strengthened his resolve, certainly, but his ego had told him he was cured, that she no longer had the power to ruin him as she once had. This belief had been mistaken. When she'd come to him later, now the prime suspect in a murder case, he'd thought himself able to investigate dispassionately, thereby satiating his curiosity without risking destruction. Robin had wanted to refuse the case, he could tell, but in the end, she was curious, too. They had made a foolhardy pair.

Over the course of the Ross case, Charlotte had taken every possible opportunity to drive them apart, but in the end, she hardly needed to. The press, hungry for details surrounding the beautiful socialite with the dead husband, had followed the two detectives everywhere. Photos of them together had appeared in the papers, drawing Charlotte's ire, and, he suspected from Robin's uneasiness in discussing her family, plenty of gossip from Masham. Worse, secrets about the case that they had been careful to conceal were also published, revealing that their phones had been tapped. When a journalist had harassed her flatmate, Thomas, on his way back from rehearsal, Robin had asked to use the agency's money to stay in a hotel. Soon, he had been forced to follow suit. By the time news of Charlotte's death reached them, it found each isolated, resentful, and doubting the other. This was her crowning achievement; him, alone, sprawled on a hotel bed with a can of Tennant's, grieving for her and hating her in equal measure. He'd picked up the cheap burner phone he'd been using to share information with Robin, wanting desperately to call her, knowing that if he did, he wouldn't be able to say what needed to be said. That conversation had come after, when the journalists had packed up and left Denmark Street, but by then it had been too late.

"While we're here, a couple of details besides the fingerprints interested me. I wondered if you'd noticed the same things I had." He was casting for a safe topic, and he thought she might know it.

"The pill bottle on the desk, for one thing", she supplied mechanically.

"Right."

"And the flowers. We haven't identified anyone in the victim's life who would turn up at her door with flowers." She remembered a day, otherwise entirely unremarkable, when she had returned home from investigating another suicide with a bouquet of her own. Although talented at suppressing regret, she couldn't help but wish her younger self had been more perspicacious.

"I've been sorting through her online presence, but she didn't leave much behind. The usual interactions with friends and acquaintances, but nothing more." He realized with a start that Robin’s eyes were shining. She swiped at her tears angrily with her sleeve.

"Sorry. Just all of this-" Once again, she shrugged. Her work involved parsing through the remnants of lives that had been left incomplete just like this one, but she was not numb to their enormity.

He nodded in solemn solidarity. Then, perhaps because he had just been viscerally reminded of life's transience, or simply because he wanted to comfort her, he reached out and took her hand where it had fallen to the table, encircling it in both of his own. Her breath caught.

Robin’s apartment was tiny, expensive, and piled high with boxes. It had only been two weeks since she'd moved into this, her latest habitation since she'd left Masham all those years ago. Despite the boxes, the cramped corners, and the cacophony of the street below, it was by far her favourite. For the first time, she was living alone, a luxury she appreciated after a long string of varyingly unsatisfactory roommates. There had been Abigale, a twitchy fellow cadet during her academy years, Bailey, who had been likable enough, but who had returned from her job in forensics smelling of industrial sanitizer and full of maggot-related anecdotes, and Thomas, who she'd liked at first, but later wanted little to do with. The others blurred together in her recollection. Her ex husband was merely one terrible member of this litany.

She had now lived more of her adult life in London than away from it. Somewhere along the way, she had acquired a mental map of the Underground, the skill necessary to parallel park the Land Rover in even the tiniest spot, and, critically, a few square meters of her own. The scared girl who had left Yorkshire on her boyfriend's arm would not have recognized the hardened detective in her leather jacket, with her biting laugh, and sharp, kind eyes. Her mother, who had visited recently on the pretense of helping her move, hadn't recognized her either. It had been a very long time since she'd been home. Accordingly, stilted complements had been made to her figure, and her shiny, ever present badge, along with a gentle suggestion that she colour the streaks of grey in her red-gold hair. Linda took signs of aging personally, blaming them on the career choice she disapproved of. It was only after a bottle of wine was shared on the pile of boxes that was currently passing for a table that mother and daughter ceased to be strangers. The iciness that had formed between them in the aftermath of Robin's decision to leave her ex husband had been thawing slowly that year over the course of long, halting phone conversations. Over the remainder of Linda's visit, it melted and was washed away with the March rain.

"I don't want to be friends", she confessed tearfully. "I asked you to meet me here tonight because- what you said all those years ago, did you-?"

"I meant it."

"And do you still-?"

"Even after all these years."

She laughed a little shakily. One of her captive fingers traced the inside of his wrist.  
"God, Cormoran. How do we carry on from here?"

"I think we finish our drinks and I walk you back to the tube."

"I meant- is tonight when you finally ask me out on a proper date?"

It was his turn to laugh, relief and melancholy mixing with absurdity.

"Dinner next Friday night then?"

"Of course."

To her credit, the woman who'd once been his partner had become his best police informant. Even in the early days, when the air between them crackled and he couldn't stand to meet her eyes, she'd agreed to help him when she could. Notes were shared freely; he benefited from her official standing, she from his ability to bend the law. She'd once told him breezily that half of her best cases included testimony from an "unnamed informant". He'd been grateful to fill even this small role in her life, although this gratitude went deliberately unacknowledged. He chose instead to tell himself that the reason his heart skipped a beat each time he saw her leather-jacketed figure bustling towards him was the invaluable information she always provided. Indeed, to some degree, it was. Building up his business again would have been impossible without her.

Despite her help, it had still been difficult. The sordid associations of being sent a leg had been nothing compared to the chaos caused by the Ross case. Every other brush with notoriety the agency had encountered previously had been like the first fat drops that signal an oncoming downpour. After, he had spent nearly every waking moment working to pull his business back from the brink. As it always did, work had become a welcome distraction. When, months and years having passed in this way, the agency started to require less attention, he missed the drudgery. Without an excess of clients to tail and files to sort through, he was left with time to spare. These hours dragged, as he watched the shadows lengthen, smoked another cigarette, became uncomfortably aware of his solitude. He had been tempted to fill Robin’s absence with other women, and had given into this temptation on a number of occasions that left him guilty and unsatisfied. Ultimately, he had come to the conclusion that he had made his proverbial bed through his own error, and should therefore keep his literal one empty.

"We should probably take things slowly. There's so much to sort through." This qualifier was expressed with some difficulty. He thought, however, that the situation demanded a higher level of courtship.

"Or we could not do that", she suggested, her boldness wonderfully startling. There was a wicked glint in her eyes when they met his. One of her long legs pressed deliberately against his good one under the table.

"Robin..."

"I know that there's work to be done. The past will come back to hurt us, I've learnt enough now to see how it always does. We need to know for sure that we're still the same people we were before, that we're strong enough. It'll take time, and effort, and commitment."

"Yeh."

"And could we just not do any of that? Could you just kiss me instead?"

He obliged.

Throughout the course of her many moves, Robin had shuffled, organized, and discarded possessions easily, as practicality demanded. One small and slightly battered cardboard box, however, had remained entirely untouched. She'd first packed it on a brisk September day many years ago, when she'd gone to gather the last of her things from the flat she'd shared with Matthew. Upon opening her old closet, she'd been surprised by a swirl of dust motes catching the cool sunshine. The past, on that particular day, had seemed stale, irrelevant. Optimism, not melancholy, had tugged at her as she sorted through the last remnants of her failed marriage.

She'd finished packing it on a much different occasion; her final evening living with Thomas. He'd been out, thankfully, as a definite chill had settled between them throughout the course of the Ross case. After all, he was Nick and Ilsa's friend first and foremost, so the rift between her and Cormoran had been destined to cause animosity. Beyond that, she'd also been a nightmare to live with for a time, constantly pursued by the press as she was. The flat they'd shared had been dark, washed only in the secondhand glow of an orange streetlamp, but she hadn't turned on a light. When she'd passed by the illuminated mirror in the bathroom, her own reflection had seemed like a stranger. She'd felt then, not seen, as a sheet of paper, two corks, and a slip of silk disappeared into the box and were sealed in with tape. A tear or two joined them. In the end, though, she'd been too exhausted to cry. Feeling as though she ought to be wracked with grief, she had instead packed the cardboard capsule in with everything else she owned in the back of the ancient Land Rover and driven away.

Just that afternoon, she'd opened it again. The tape had given way easily, so old as to no longer be sticky. The contents were exactly as she remembered, if disorderly from her many moves. Beneath a certificate vouching for her advanced driving skills, she found and retrieved the soft cream sweater she’d worn on her first day in Denmark Street. She doubted Strike would remember it, but it seemed like a more appropriate choice than her typical uniform of leather jacket and jeans. It would be all too easy, she knew, to slip into her tough detective persona, as easy as slipping into the jacket, but she had to resist. Pinning a final wave into place, she reflected that this ought to be a challenge perfectly matched to her skill set. Through some trial and error, she’d become adept at embodying whomever the situation called for, be it a polished lawyer, gothic leftist militant, or posh sister in law. All she had to be tonight was a beautiful woman on a first date. Looking in the mirror, she judged herself to be mostly succeeding. Something poison green winked at her from the bottom of the box, but she let the dress wait for the moment. The breathless thought occurred to her that if this evening went well, she might have an occasion to wear it yet.

"I've never been in your new flat. It's nice. Warmer than Denmark Street, too." In fact, with the door shut behind them, it felt suddenly oppressive, the air thick and roiling.

"D'ya want anything? Tea, or-" He had nothing to offer her besides tea.

"I'm alright, thanks."

"I miss the old place though. It feels like I hardly know London anymore sometimes."

"Mmm." She took a deliberate step towards him, eager to break the sudden awkwardness.

"Sorry. I'm an old man." He unbuttoned her trench coat, letting it slide off her shoulders.

"I'm not as young as I used to be, either.”

He tucked a loose wave behind her ear, caressing her jaw with solemn gentleness. Then, he was kissing her again, and it hardly mattered whether they were growing older or the city was changing around them. This, right now, was enough.

The weariness that typically characterized his Fridays had evaded him all day. Instead, he was jumpy, unfocused, and even irritable. He’d declined a drink with Shanker, who now numbered among the agency’s subcontractors, which prompted some highly unprofessional needling about his cryptic plans. Thoroughly surfeited, he had retreated to his office. As usual, there were bills to be paid, the most concerning among them the exorbitant rent on the new space. Fortunately, they were outnumbered, at least for the moment, by invoices to be sent out to satisfied clients. To this tedium he had devoted himself for the afternoon, but was almost instantly distracted. Paperwork could only occupy a minority of his thoughts and the rest wandered, as he knew they would, to Robin. The nature of the evening they were about to share was unclear to him. Was it a date? He thought he’d seen something like intent in her eyes that day in the cafe, at the very least there had been something charged about the moment, but he couldn’t know anything for sure. Sighing, he cracked the window, lit a cigarette. Even this familiar act was not enough to calm him entirely.

Unbidden but not as unwelcome as he might have preferred, came thoughts of how successful first dates sometimes ended. A breathless pause by a front door, a kiss, a suggestion that perhaps the night need not be over just yet. He’d first dared to think of Robin this way around the time of their embrace on the Herbert’s couch, but had been careful to keep his imaginings vague. She was, after all, his partner first and foremost. Thinking of how soft her hair must be was another thing entirely from picturing it mussed around her on his pillow. After she left, he forbade himself even these relatively chaste fantasies. When his thoughts strayed to her during waking hours, he would squash them as forcefully as possible, as he would upon waking from a dream of her. Sometimes, he succeeded. Mostly, he didn’t. Alone in his office that afternoon, he was failing spectacularly. Setting down an invoice with resignation, he raked a hand through his hair, shutting his eyes against visions of her. He did not know exactly how much he dared hope for from that night, but was sure that taking her to bed with him was entirely too much.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, please, Cormoran,” she affirmed, each word a decadent sigh.

“God, Robin, you have no idea how long…” His words were lost to the moment, but they both knew how to finish the sentence.

Hours later, Robin stirred, awoken by the sound of a car alarm some unknown distance away. Some things never changed, then, and London’s bustle was one. Through the layers of hazy contentment that surrounded her, she began to piece together where she was, to whom the arms wrapped around her belonged, and the circumstances that had brought them there. At some point during the night, Strike must have given her the thick red jumper she now wore, which kept her warm even as she stole from between his arms, sitting up in bed. There was a chill in the air, as evidently this flat lacked proper heating just like the old one. She shivered a little, but not with the cold. The fears and doubts that she had valiantly pushed passed in the pub were returning. There was work to be done, they did need to make sure they were still the same people as before, and it would take commitment. The past, too, was sure to get to them. One kiss, even one night as incredible as the one they had shared, was not enough to change all that. She looked down at him, at this man who meant so much to her, tracing the planes and shadows of his face with her gaze, calming herself. In sleep, the long years could not touch him. His brow was smooth, his lashes soft and dark. Without his characteristic scowl, he seemed wonderfully at peace. She brushed one dark curl back from his forehead, almost reverently.

Then, all at once, her misgivings ceased to be important. Whatever was coming, they had each other, after finally finding a way to make it work. The words that had been both too much and not enough on that cold afternoon years ago fit perfectly now. Lying back down, she nuzzled against his neck. There would be plenty of times coming to say these words in the light of day, when the love of her life and the man she’d always find her way back to wasn’t sleeping, but for now she whispered them in his ear:

“I love you, Cormoran.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to ZoeSong for bearing with me through the early drafts of this, and also for fixing my punctuation. This isn't how I or anyone in the fandom hopes these two will get together, but I like the idea that they're meant to find each other, and so the rest just comes down to how and when.


End file.
